Fractured
by amoka22
Summary: Insults are everywhere, and eventually America starts to believe them. A constant victim of bullying, he wears a mask everywhere. One day that mask cracks, and the fractures just keep getting larger and larger. But he's broken, not shattered, and that is the difference, one that may not exist for much longer. Rated T for language, mentions of self-harm, suicide, and bullying.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia.**

**I find that the first part of this story goes well with 'God Bless This Mess' by Sheryl Crow, and the second part (after the linebreak) goes well with 'The Long Day Is Over' by Norah Jones.**

* * *

The day he broke was the day he came home crying.

It was just like any other World Conference, if you could even call it that. Why the World Conferences even continued was a mystery to Alfred, it was just an excuse for all the countries to fight with each other, and blame each other for all the world's current problems. No one took anything said there seriously, anyway. It was just a chance to make everybody as miserable as possible, and maybe get into a few bitch-fights.

As it was, this one was no exception, with the usual insults directed at America: ignorant, oblivious, dim, daft, moron, idiot, brainless git, burger-loving freak, hero-obsessed jerk, arrogant jerk, fatass, and a fucking hamburger bastard. There were also the usual cracks about his 'obese, loud, stupid, arrogant, cocky, vain, in-debt' country. Not so plainly, though. Oh no, definitely no so clearly written; sugarcoated, sarcastic, or woven into snide comments that they thought he was too stupid to get. In fact, everyone at the meeting was making more and more blatantly obvious remarks; America wouldn't show that he understood, though. To openly acknowledge the less-and-less teasing remarks becoming more-and-more hurtful remarks would be like admitting defeat, and that was something America hated to do. So he didn't.

They weren't even good insults. Well, maybe they once had been, but he was far to used to them to be stunned into silence as he once had been. Instead of numbing him, they stung; each one worse than the preceding insult. Soon, he was blinking back tears at even the simplest of insults. America was working overtime while presenting his idea about global warming to hold back tears, and keep up his usual carefree, oblivious façade. His stupid, childish, unrealistic, immature idea, as the peanut gallery let him know.

This was cause enough to pause his usual train of thoughts, as he drove home from the meeting, and instead linger and reflect back on those insults and his feelings. As the thinks back on the ever-growing list of insults, a thought strikes him. An irrevocable and _obviously_ undeniable statement: they saw something wrong about him, and they were trying to fix him, to make him better. But he thought there was nothing wrong with him. Either he or they were in the wrong.

And it's not them.

It's obviously not them. No, it's both implausible and improbable to think that everyone but him is in the wrong.

He was stupid_. Is_ stupid. He is an airhead. He is lazy. Gross. A moron. A brainless git. A freak. Is overweight. Even though he works out, and has never been outside of the healthy bodyweight range in his life, he is clearly overweight. It's glaringly obvious now; how could he have missed it before?

As this thought flows through America's head, tears begin to form in his stormy blue eyes. Not sky blue. Not azure. Stormy blue. Murky blue. An ugly, unappealing color that you would turn your nose up at. Because America is ugly. Not beautiful, as the song would happily mislead you, but very, very ugly. No, with so many faults and problems, he has to be ugly. And unloved. No one would want to – shouldwant to – _could _love someone as screwed up and messed up and fucked up and ugly as him.

'Who would ever want to love someone as ugly, fat, gross, unhealthy, annoying, _arrogant, FAT, horrible, _and _lazy_ as me? Face the facts: England has never and will never love you. The only reason he fought so hard to keep you was because you brought in money. Canada? Mattie? Oh, please. He often goes on rants, highlighting every bad thing about you that you secretly cry about later. He obviously doesn't love you. And why should he? He's constantly beat up because of _you_. He lives in _your _shadow. Very little people see him because of _you_, you _asshole_! Japan? Kiku? He stabbed you in the back. France? He only sees you as a possible fuck-toy. No one loves you.'

And as America pulled up to his house, he realized he had been wearing a mask, a shock absorber of sorts. He also realized that the hit form today had cracked that heroic, burger-loving, idiotic mask. And he realized that the brunt of the damage was inside. That he had been fragile, like glass, on the inside, and like glass, he too had broken. But that's okay.

He hadn't shattered.

Yet.

And that was the day America came home crying.

But that's okay. If something's broken, it can be fixed, mended, healed.

But if something's shattered…

And so with a cracked mask and a fractured heart, mind, body, sanitary, _whichever_, America got on with life.

He endured each hellish meeting and every insult with a broken smile and a fractured look in his eyes that everyone seemed to overlook. His mask might've been cracked, but it was still in place. For now.

And every day hairline fractures spread further away from the crack in his mask; he was one big push away from shattering completely.

America got more and more desperate; he started cutting himself, and 'accidently' showed the scars during a meeting. They believed his paper-thin excuse, no questions asked. He stopped eating for a while, and fainted during a meeting; after he quietly said he was fine, they stopped asking if he was okay, never mind that if they had pulled up his shirt they could have counted his ribs. He frequently made suicidal remarks; no one noticed. He knew what he was doing was wrong, but couldn't stop. And he couldn't flat-out tell them either; they made him like this, they would only make him worse. If they realized for themselves, then maybe they could help him. Because America knew he needed help. But dammit if he wasn't a proud nation still, his damn pride getting in the way of getting help. So he went on with his silent cries for help.

America didn't even know if his silent cries were actually doing anything. He didn't know if they didn't notice, or noticed but didn't say anything. Because actually acknowledging his problems would somehow make them real, and then they would have to actually pause their fucking _perfect _lives to deal with him. No one could- _would_- hear him, listen to him, or even really _look_ at him. Something was going to give soon.

And even though America knew it wasn't going to be them, he still hoped it would be.

* * *

It was at a world conference when it happened, that final push.

It was his turn to present his idea to solve the global warming issue, so he went up to the chalkboard.

"Hey, fatass too much coffee this morning? Your hands are shaking."

"No, you idiot, it's clearly a McDonalds withdrawal!"

"Oh, really? I would've thought it was just too early for him. Doesn't his lazy ass usually sleep in 'til two?"

"You are knowing his hands would not be doing the shaking if he was one with Mother Russia. It is no matter though, we will all become one eventually, da?"

"I wonder if he would notice if I blew spitballs at him?"

"Twenty points for his head!"

_SPLAT!_

"Ha, twenty points!"

America froze in the middle of drawing his prototype that would potentially stop global warming. It was a stupid idea anyway, but…

He dropped the piece of chalk he had been holding, 'tiza en español' he idly thought, reaching around to feel the back of his head where the spitball had landed. 'Huh, spitballs. That's a new one.' He numbly thought, staring straight ahead at the chalkboard.

"My turn!"

_SPLAT!_

Something warm, wet, and papery hit the back of his hand that was still covering the other spitball. He dropped that hand, bringing it forward to examine the wad of spit and paper up close, still numb.

"Haha, that counts for thirty points!"

"What? No fair!"

_Push. Shatter._

And with that last statement, his mask broke off, free falling to who-knows-where.

And he shattered. Completely and irrevocably, he shattered.

If something's broken, you can fix it, mend it, heal it.

If something's shattered…

America turns around, tears, (when did those get there?) streaming down his face, and pulls a .22 caliber pistol out of the holster he always has on his person. He points it at a couple of countries, which ones he's not sure; the tears are blurring his vision.

Maybe his cracked mask was so good no one could see through it, but now he had no mask. It was torn off, broken beyond repair, and everyone saw him, vulnerable, exposed, _shattered_.

And they saw his gun. And they were afraid, he could tell, because they talked to him in low, soothing voices. Their voices were distant, though.

Switzerland had pulled one of his guns out, too, at some point, and it was pointed at him. He had a 'if you make a move, you're dead' look on his face. Ha, as if America would hurt them.

He only has one bullet.

America takes one look around the room and smiles a truly terrifying smile. The twisted type of sanity he has left makes itself present in his shattered, murky blue eyes, and radiates off of his broken smile while tears drip off his chin.

'It's raining outside,' he thinks bitterly, 'how fitting.'

And then he closes his murky eyes, and places the tip of the gun to his temple.

And then in the distant background, he hears unidentifiable words from undistinguishable voices and shouts and screams as the world realizes what he's going to do. And through the static of radio he has in his head, through the ringing sensation in his ears, he hears chairs screeching as they are forced back abruptly.

But they're too late, all of them, as he pulls the trigger, and everything goes black and silent.

If something's broken, it can be mended, fixed, healed, patched, rebuilt, made whole.

But if something's shattered…

All you can hope for is not to be hurt too badly when you pick up the pieces.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed! ...If you can enjoy something like this...

I realize some other authors might have done something similar, but oh well. This idea has been bouncing around in my head for some time now.

I think this goes rather well as a one-shot, but if you all want me to continue, I can. You'll need to review and tell me though.

Oh, I'd like to thank my awesome beta, ScienceWolf, for both betaing and giving me a title.

**Please review~**


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